


The Same Frayed Rope

by nikkigoose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Implied Underage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkigoose/pseuds/nikkigoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time for a haircut.<br/>--<br/><i>Stiles knows Derek’s favorite corners of his room, the favorite spots on his bed, and the favorite places to touch on his body. Stiles shivers at the thought of the rough pads of fingertips along his hips, wondering if there’re finally grooves there now, a place for Derek’s fingers to fit perfectly. Everything feels right when Derek’s around. He blankets Stiles with safety that’s missing when he’s absent.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Frayed Rope

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So here's my first fanfic of this fandom. I'd like to thank Sully for being my beta and giving me endless advice <3
> 
> *Warnings* Hints of underage, implied past Derek/Kate, and minor character canonical death.  
> If there's any warnings I did not give that you'd like me to address please let me know (:

Stiles feels a rough hand palm through the dark tuft of hair on his head. He glances up from his computer screen, fingers pausing over the lightened keys, towards Derek leaning over him. He’s proud over the fact that he didn’t flinch over the creeper’s tactics and wonders if werewolf senses were contagious, or if it’s just Derek.

In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, he’s pretty sure it’s Derek. Or maybe not just Derek, but also Stiles. How he had gotten so comfortable around his presence that he learned to pick out Derek’s little tendencies. Like how Derek has a thousand types of glares. There’s a “you’re so stupid” glare, the “I’m really concerned for you but I’m going to be emotionally constipated” glare, the fond glare after Stiles does something stupid yet endearing, but the saddest of all, the “I’m really mad at myself but I’ll keep quiet” glare.

Stiles knows Derek’s favorite corners of his room, the favorite spots on his bed, and the favorite places to touch on his body. Stiles shivers at the thought of the rough pads of fingertips along his hips, wondering if there’re finally grooves there now, a place for Derek’s fingers to fit perfectly. Everything feels right when Derek’s around. He blankets Stiles with safety that’s missing when he’s absent.

Derek is his own personal brand of Adderall, his calming agent. He grounds him, and fills him up, and makes him feel like Stiles again.

“You need a trim,” is all that Derek mutters, and Stiles rolls his eyes, going back to his English paper. He’s in his senior year now, eighteen and so close to graduating.

“You need to shave.” He pointedly looks at Derek’s chin, the stubble turning into a full on beard. He doesn’t mention how he thinks it’s a really hot look for him. Nope, not one bit. “Mountain man,” he mumbles instead, but Derek picks up in his scent the fondness they both share.

After a few minutes of the clacking keys, Derek huffs, still palming through Stiles hair. He grabs onto his elbow, tugging relentlessly. Stiles just sighs, knowing this is a losing battle, and closes his laptop. Derek tugs on the collar of one of the many flannels Stiles owns, steering him towards the bathroom.

“Pushy, pushy.” Stiles isn’t sure if he’s turned on or annoyed over the interruption of his essay.

Derek grumbles, the words in his mind failing to leave his mouth. And besides, Stiles doesn’t need words to figure out what Derek wants or needs.

He helps Stiles onto the sink counter, trying to find the razor while Stiles swings his legs back and forth, a steady thump on the wood cabinets underneath. Plugging in the razor, Derek makes his niche in between Stiles’ thighs.

He runs the razor steadily across his skull, the tufts of hair floating silently to the sink. Stiles fidgets once in a while, running his hands over Derek’s sides, over the familiar fabric of his white wife beaters, and up towards his neck, silently, lightly, pressing a finger down on his pulse. Derek’s blood thrums steadily underneath his fingertips.

When Derek’s done, he blows away the remaining hair and hands the razor to Stiles. Stiles -- after a low growl to make sure not to shave it too short -- runs the razor across Derek’s jaw. It takes him longer, his hands jittery, kissing the spots after moving the device away. 

They take their time, reminding themselves that they can still feel guilty after all these years. They remind themselves that they can share it, lifting it off of their shoulders. But only for a little while, until the thrumming of the razor stops and the hair finally settles in the sink or on the floor.

Cutting his hair reminded Stiles of the times where he spent the majority of his nights at the hospital, which stunk of sickness, death, and cleaner. He remembers falling asleep at the chair staring at the blank wall, waiting for his mom to wake up on the bed, declare she felt better, and for them to go home. He remembers deciding one long night when Scott still lived with his dad to take out the razor and to buzz his hair away. He came in the next day to his mother’s eyes tearing up, running a palm over his skull before hugging him tightly. 

He remembers feeling the ghosts of her fingertips over the peach fuzz as he stood over her coffin, his father’s hand on his shoulder, his heartbeat a frantic rhythm in the cloudy fog of the funeral.

Derek remembers the days he stood at the sink, younger and lanky, shaving, because that’s what she liked as she gave him directions under the sheets. He had wanted to impress back then, make everything perfect, perfect for her. He wanted to feel older and mature, worthy in a way that no one had seen him before. He remembers the soft feel of his skin when he put his head in his hands, hunched in a seat at the police station, crying over the burnt shell of his house. 

At night the ghosts wouldn’t leave him. At night the smell of ash never left him. The next morning his sister packed up and moved them to New York.

New York isn’t far enough away to make the ghosts go away. It isn’t far enough to make the guilt lessen and release its clenching on Derek’s heart.

They finish and clean up, and make their way towards Stiles bedroom, where they cuddle under the sheets, legs entangled in one another.

They’re two ends of the same frayed rope, trapped in the same world, and Stiles thinks, looking up at Derek, that next time he won’t let him shave off his hair. 

Cupping Stiles’ face in his hands, Derek thinks maybe, just maybe, he’ll let Stiles shave it all off next time.

The moon rises, and the stars come out, and howls begin their lonely trek through the woods and into the night.


End file.
